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what can i ever be?

i have never been as skillful
speaking and talking and letting words whistle past my lips with the efficiency of an arrow hitting the bull’s eye,
than with letting my fingers do the talking, ink painting the outside skin of my pinky, as i drag it across words staining pure white paper.

my eyes can dart across the lined paper nonstop,
revising and changing these written words,
but my tongue and mouth will falter mid-sentence,
and i will st-st-stutter past the “um’s” and the “uh’s”.

this craft which is mine, which i constantly refine,
these painted words dance across my eyes at night,
galaxies and stars looming behind the hasty scrawls,
as the sun in the east starts to rise.

but even my written words pale in comparison
to the elegantly refined cursive of the millions in the world
as theirs gather color and gold and shine,
mine gather the leftovers, crumbs, and dull.

to which now i found myself floundering in these deep waters,
looking at the east where these words dance and shine
but are nothing in the long run,
looking at the west where i will be instantly eaten alive by the sharks,
to survive or to die, to not shine or to be the dregs

wondering what possibly could define me,
bring me out of this crowd of monochrome
give me a crown of gold,
to the next question that plagues my soul –
eats it alive, takes it nutrients, pounds away its foundations –

what can i ever be?


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